


Lace Up My Tangled Heartstrings

by Rinari7



Series: Nikolija 'Verse [4]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: (Due to Aforementioned Alcohol Lowering Inhibitions But Honestly Everything Is Consensual Here), Alcohol, Corsetry, Discovering Sapphicness, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Time, Gender Identity Issues, Genderbending, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Source Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: Helen isn't sure what possessed her to offer to let Nikolija try on her corset, but she can't at all regret it.





	Lace Up My Tangled Heartstrings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinknevertalks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [tinknevertalks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/pseuds/tinknevertalks) in the [FandomRevival](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FandomRevival) collection. 



> So, consider this a "canon" divergent smutfic of my own AU.  
> Very Victorian, touching on various gender and body stuff, possibly hints of a D/s dynamic? I don't even know.  
> This turned out far longer than I expected, and not at all particularly porny, actually, but I'm pretty happy with it.

Leading Nikola — Nikolija — to her bedchamber still feels a little illicit, even though Tesla’s just another woman, now, nothing untoward about that. The wine and whiskey from earlier in the evening lead Helen’s thoughts swirling around the person beside her: her dashing-cut suit, and his long hair, and gray eyes that turn electric when their gazes clash.

Helen twines her fingers with Nikolija’s — for stability! because they're both a little tipsy — as they climb the stairs and stumble through her doorway, with hushed giggles. She doesn't even remember what they'd originally started laughing about.

“I may need your help removing my dress,” she tells Nikola-Nikolija-Tesla. She could wrestle out of it, but in her mildly uncoordinated state, help will make things simpler. “Men's clothes are so much easier.”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘easier.’” Tesla’s accent always seems most pronounced in the evenings, doubly so if he-she’s had anything to drink. Helen steadies herself against a bedpost, and her friend’s questing fingers fumble at the topmost button of her dress. “I'm happy to help you remove any item of clothing you desire,” Nikolija tells her, in a voice low and lilting with jest.

It sends a thrill through Helen she can't quite name — an innate sense of rebellion, perhaps. “Say it again.” It fascinates her so, to see how well Nikolija has learned to be a man.

“What? That I would be happy to help you remove any item of clothing you like?” She sounds vaguely amused, as Helen feels her fingers slowly making their way down her back.

“How easily flirting and teasing comes to you.” She can’t help but admire it, in a way. It's not that Helen is innocent, _per se_ — she's a doctor, and she knows how bodies work. But on the more personal side of things, she sometimes feels achingly inexperienced for thirty-two.

“Of course it comes easily with a beautiful woman.” A little gruff, as Tesla works over a particularly difficult button. More quietly, she adds, “I learned to give words to what crosses my mind, instead of staying silent.” Her palms are warm against the small of Helen’s back as she slowly plies the outermost layer of Helen’s clothing away.

“Isn’t this uncomfortable?” She sounds genuinely bemused as she touches the laces of the corset underneath.

“You mean you've never worn a corset before?” Helen glances at Nikolija over her shoulder, vaguely astonished. Some things, she had previously assumed, were practically universal to women.

“No. I left home and began living as a boy before I really needed anything of the sort.” Her fingers wander, gentle, exploratory, along the upper edge, and suddenly Helen wonders what it might feel like if they drifted to the front…

“Well, if it’s worn properly, it's quite comfortable and supportive.” Reaching back, she by some miracle manages to undo the knots on the first try, and begins to loosen the laces.

“I suppose.” His-her roving fingers have stilled. Helen can practically feel her scientist’s eyes on her, watching, cataloguing. Her cheeks heat; it must be the alcohol.

“Would you like to try it on?” She's not sure what possesses her to offer, but as she turns to face Nikolija, the slight, hesitant beginnings of a smile blooming across her friend’s face tell her it was the right thing to do.

“You wouldn't mind?” And in this, she seems more a girl than Helen has ever seen her, a little shy, a little longing.

“Of course not, you silly goose.” Helen wriggles and steps out of her dress, unhooking the busk of the corset and setting it on top of her bed for the moment. “It won't fit perfectly, but you can get a sense of it. Pull one of my underdresses out of the wardrobe; they should fit you all right.”

“Thank you.” There's an awkward grace in the way she walks, now, something Helen thinks is closer to her natural gait and less of the smooth swagger she often wears — and yet that suit-clad version snarking next to her in lectures is Nikolija, too. Slowly, the pieces in Helen’s mind are allowing themselves to be slotted together, but it's a delicate process.

Helen watches Nikolija shrug off his-her jacket and hang it up. The same she does with her trousers. Then comes the waistcoat, the overshirt, slowly, methodically.

When she comes to her flannel undergarments, she hesitates, glancing over her shoulder to Helen perched on the bed, a slight flush to her usually pale cheeks.

“It’s nothing I haven't seen before.” Helen gestures to herself, now clad only in her chemise and drawers, nothing to hide her figure.

Nikolija wets her lips. “I suppose not.”

The flannel undershirt comes off first, less carefully than the previous items of clothing, though she doesn't just drop them on the floor like some others might do. “Where should I—?”

Helen reaches out. “I'll hold them for now.”

Nikolija has wrapped several strips of cloth tightly over her chest, to prevent her silhouette from showing too much femininity, Helen supposes. But now she unties the knot above her breastbone, unwrapping the cloth with a speed that tells of practice. And suddenly, Helen is very nervous-curious-anticipatory of seeing Nikolija without her disguise, Tesla the woman.

“Do you want my help with that?” The words slip out, and she sets Nikolija’s undershirt on the blanket beside her and stands.

“Oh, no, I'm fine. I'm almost finished.” A smile, something between Nikola’s self-assured smirk and Nikolija’s wry, shy grin. Then the cloth is falling away, Nikolija is rolling it up neatly, and Helen is, perhaps, staring just a little.

Her breasts are smaller, flatter than Helen’s own, in keeping with her slim frame, but they are definitely there. Palmfuls of currently useless mammary tissue, her analytical doctor’s mind supplies, and under any other circumstances that's where her thoughts would stay. But tonight, here… _Soft-pebbled-pink-fascinating-delicious-touch-touchtouchtaste_ flits across her thoughts, back and forth, and she clasps her hands against the itch in her fingertips. She wants to chalk this up to the alcohol, too, but it isn't, she knows, not entirely.

“Isn't it uncomfortable? Having them bound so much of the time? Doesn't it chafe?” She shouldn't have had so much to drink. At least these are fairly innocent questions. With Nikolija’s secret in her keeping, she thought she could let her guard down around Tesla. Nikola she mistrusted — and she wasn't attracted to him in the least.

Nikolija, it seems, is far more dangerous in a different way.

“I imagine no more than your corset, but I suppose I'll find out in a moment.” It's almost teasing, but gentle. “Then I can give you a more accurate comparison.” A little of Nikola and a little of Nikolija and so very Tesla.

Nikolija is slipping on a pale chemise, _Helen’s_ chemise, and it shouldn't strike her like that but it does. There's no reason to be _pleased_ , per se, at someone else donning your clothes, and yet she is.

It's ill-fitting, too loose in the bust and too short for Tesla’s lanky frame, but Nikolija looks down at herself, smoothing down the skirt, and practically beams.

“I own a dress,” she says, pushing raven-dark strands behind her ear as she turns to face Helen. “Still. I keep it at the very back of my wardrobe. I haven't worn it in years. It probably doesn't fit anymore.”

“You might try it on again sometime. You look lovely in a dress.” Helen turns, loosening the corset laces, checking that everything is in order before she holds it out to Nikolija.

“I look good in everything I wear.” Tesla winks at her, half bravado and half actually earnest.

Reflexively, Helen swats gently at his-her shoulder, though a twist of heat curls through her veins. Nikolija does look positively delectable in whatever she decides to put on, but really, Tesla has enough of an ego already.

With surprising familiarity, Nikolija fastens the hooks of the busk, one by one, and tugs on the hem to make sure it sits right.

“I thought you said you'd never worn a corset before.” It's slightly accusatory. She's baffled, a little frustrated — because her governess had had to show her twice, in painstaking detail, how this contraption worked, and tie it for her several more times, when Helen had been introduced to the garment. And because she wants to do this for Nikolija, wants the excuse to be close, to let her fingers brush over laces and along edges like Nikolija’s had on her. (If she were the superstitious sort, she might have called that the beginning of a spell. But she isn't.)

“I have several older sisters.” Nikolija hums the beginning of a laugh, but it's more melancholy than anything else. “I saw them put their corsets on many times.” She reaches around to tug at the laces, to tighten them, but working behind your own back takes practice Nikolija obviously doesn't have. “I'm sure I _could_ do this on my own, given time or necessity, but at the moment…”

“I'm sure you could,” Helen murmurs, wryly, because far be it from Tesla to admit any _real_ incompetence, “but this time, would you like me to do it for you?”

“If you don't mind.” Nikolija glances at the floor, for a moment. “Is it some rite of initiation? Someone else tying a corset for you for the first time?”

“It is a sort of a rite of passage, I suppose.” Helen licks her lips as she steps closer, gently tugging on the laces to even out the pressure. “Tell me when the pressure is firm but not tight.” Her voice has lowered, roughened, without any intention on her part, and she clears her throat. “You should still able to breathe fairly comfortably.”

“Well, it's not there yet,” Nikolija quips, and rests her hands on Helen’s bedpost, tangling her fingers together.

Bit by bit, Helen tightens the laces, waiting a moment after each pass before she tightens them again. Nikolija is slimmer than she is, and the shape the garment is used to holding isn't the one it needs to hold now. Nikolija’s breathing remains carefully measured, deep. Helen's feels too loud, by comparison, as she tries to put surgical precision into the task, efficient, gentle, not touching more than is necessary. Because Nikolija is her friend, and while Helen may not have had many (any, really) female friends to compare this to, she is quite certain that friends do not touch each other the way Helen wants to touch Nikolija.

What would that make them, if Helen did touch her?

“I think that's good,” comes Nikolija’s soft murmur, and Helen stills her hands. “It feels comfortably closed.”

“I'll tie the laces, then.” Her voice is rough again, her mouth dry. When she's finished, she steps away.

Nikolija glances down at herself, smoothing her skirt again (though it’s hardly wrinkled) and turns to face her. “So?”

Helen takes a breath, and just looks at her. Nikolija still stands with her feet apart, shoulders squared, head high. _With confidence_ , Helen realizes, more confidence and authority than they teach women to display. It’s alluring. The corset shapes Nikolija’a figure, tucks in her waist and pushes up her breasts — or perhaps this is simply the first time they haven't been bound to disguise them as much as possible. Helen tries not to let her eyes linger there, and  has to smile slightly at the men’s flannel drawers peeking out from under her chemise. Nikolija’s hair frames her face, straight and long and awkward-graceful in the same moment, much like the rest of her.

Helen reads a question in her anxious gray eyes.

“What is it?”

Nikolija shakes her head slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what? How am I looking at you?” She's not quite sure of very much at all right now, heart skipping against her ribs. “I thought you wanted my appraisal.”

“I did not say I wanted you to stop looking.” Nikolija curls the corners of her mouth up, though it's not exactly a smile. Helen licks her lip. “You are looking at me as — as my father looked at my mother sometimes. As I always imagined a man might look at his wife.”

“Shouldn't that be you looking at me?” She’s jesting, of course, because, well, Nikolija _is_ the one who pretends to be a man most of the time. It seems less amusing now that the words are out of her mouth.

Nikolija stiffens, and then lets one of Nikola’s lopsided, rogueish smirks spread across her lips. “If you insist.”

And the look she gives her: dark eyes meeting her own, then trailing slowly, deliberately down to her lips, along her neck, lingering on her breasts… Helen can feel the flush rising across her skin, her nipples pebbling.

“You do that very well.” Helen’s a bit breathless, but she can really hardly be blamed for that, she thinks.

“Hrm?” Nikolija snaps her gaze up to Helen’s eyes once more, darting her tongue across her lips. “The way I’m looking at you?”

“Yes.” It feels a little like a confession, perhaps the secrets bosom friends tell one another. “If I had a husband — or a lover —” because she's thought of taking one, if there were any man who caught her fancy thusly, “I'd want him to look at me like that.”

“A lover?” Nikolija arches an eyebrow at her, her tone transitioning from surprise to Nikola’s suggestive purr. “The Lady Helen Magnus has thought about — is looking for? — a _lover_? Do tell.”

Helen mirrors her arched eyebrow, despite the embarrassed heat in her cheeks. “ _Doctor_ Helen Magnus, as you very well know.” She finds her gaze slipping away from Nikolija’s, and forces herself to meet her eyes. “And a lady has desires, as I'm sure you _also_ know.” It's a challenge, the best defense mechanism she’s found so far — until she remembers it backfires more often than not with Tesla.

“Oh, that I do, _Doctor_ Magnus.” Nikola’s pointed smile is hovering on Nikolija’s lips, and Helen’s heart skips a beat. “The question is, do _you_?”

There isn't any space between them, suddenly, though Helen can't recall either of them moving. She can't name either her own emotions or those she sees in Nikolija’s searching gray eyes. “ _Is_ that the question?”

“It only remains a question if you don't answer it.”

Helen isn't sure what sort of game they're playing, doesn't have the foggiest idea what the score might be, only that her breath is coming short and Nikolija is wetting her lips and Helen's fingers itch to tangle themselves in her hair and pull her closer —

Nikolija drops her gaze, stepping back, moving to place the bedpost between them. Helen exhales, suddenly bereft.

“If I hadn't said — if you still thought me a man —” Nikolija isn't looking at her, her voice rough, a lilted attempt to tease that just comes out raw. “Might a certain Serbian physics student have come into question for you?”

“No.” Helen says this without thinking, because this is easy, this she knows.

Nikolija nods, slowly, and a weight settles into her frame. She avoids Helen’s eyes.

Helen’s mouth is dry. She opens her mouth to speak, but fear wraps around her ribcage, and the words won't come out. Swallowing, she tries again, determined. “But a certain brilliant Serbian woman might.”

Nikolija’s gaze darts up to lock with Helen’s, and she straightens, lighting up from within.

Helen steps around the bed, slow, careful in her approach. Her heart races, and her logical mind lags behind, so far behind she isn't even sure of its existence at the moment. “I wouldn't have thought of a woman, before tonight. Isn’t that just the silliest thing in the world?" She laughs a little, at herself, at everything. "Why _shouldn't_ we explore — explore the possibility of —” She's floundering as she attempts to organize her thoughts. “— of making love to one another,” she finishes in a murmur.

Nikolija stands, in a rush, then pauses. “Do you really —?” Breathy, a little disbelieving, as she reaches towards her.

Helen can only nod, for one breathless moment. Then Nikolija steps towards her, tilting her head, to brush her lips across Helen’s. It's surprisingly light, soft, a little hesitant.

Helen makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. _That wasn't a kiss_ , she wants to protest, _not even close_ . But then Nikolija _does_ kiss her, pressing their lips together more firmly, cupping her jaw. Helen melts, throwing herself into this, into her.

She moans, opening her mouth to Nikolija, who immediately takes advantage, swiping her tongue over Helen’s bottom lip. Without conscious thought, Helen slides her hands to the back of Nikolija’s head, holding her to herself. They sway together, _not close enough_ , but the proximity, the sensation of bodies separated only by a few thin layers of cloth, sends heat racing through Helen’s veins and prickling underneath her skin.

She needs air, and so finally she breaks the kiss, gasping as she sets her forehead against Nikolija’s, her eyes closed. “Dear God.”

“Do you really think God had much to do with this?” Nikolija is wry, as she always is when the topic of a higher power comes up.

“If there is one, I owe her nothing but thanks for bringing you into my life.” In this moment, she can't fathom any other existence, one without Nikolija, without _this_.

“You're quite welcome, then.”

Drawing back, opening her eyes, she spies Nikolija’s lopsided, cheeky-earnest smile, and grins. “You're so full of yourself.”

“Of course I am.” Nikolija winks, pausing to gulp in a deep breath. “I did just kiss the most marvelous woman I've ever known breathless.”

“You seem a bit winded yourself.” Helen sways closer; she _needs_ to be closer in a way she can't describe, craves the feeling of skin on warm skin, and if she hitched up Nikolija’s skirt —

“I blame your bloody corset.” Nikolija looks down at herself ruefully. “Makes it harder than usual to get in a proper breath.”

Helen hums, thoughtfully, as she lets her gaze wander down for moment. “It does look good on you, though.”

“So you prefer me as a woman?” There's something in her voice Helen can't quite name, a sort of disquiet, a soft distance.

“I prefer you not trying to put on any façade,” she says, and meets Nikolija’s gaze again.

The next kiss is fierce, Nikolija gripping her hips, turning both of them so Helen’s legs hit the back of the bed. Nikolija doesn't push her, not quite, but she finds herself sitting down, shifting backwards, lying back as Nikolija climbs onto the bed to straddle her, kissing all the while as if she wishes to devour her.

For a brief moment, Nikolija draws back and simply looks at her again, and Helen takes her in equally: eyes bright, lips pink, breasts rising and falling with her quick, needy breaths.

“What do you like?” Nikolija sets her hands just below Helen's shoulders, her touch light; she sweeps them slowly down Helen's sides, avoiding her breasts, to meet just below her belly button. For some reason this gesture of near-reverence, more than so much else, makes her heart pound. She can feel herself slickening between her legs, and she bites her lip.

“I want you to touch me. Properly. Move back.” She gestures for Nikolija to let her up; slowly, a little reluctantly, Nikolija complies.

Helen pulls her chemise over her head as quickly as she can, glancing at Nikolija as she tosses it unceremoniously somewhere off the bed. She’s not used to being unclothed, not in this sort of context, but she refuses to feel shame or show timidity. Nikolija’s eyes have darkened, her posture stiffer, poised, like a cat waiting to pounce, and when Helen lets her hands fall to the strings of her drawers — entirely subconsciously, as she debates with herself whether to remove them — the look Nikolija gives her is enough to convince her to strip herself of those, too.

Nikolija hitches her skirt up, unbuttoning her drawers and draping them over the footboard. Yet she remains turned away; one second ticks by, then two, and suddenly Helens begins to feel a bit cold and foolish. “Is something the matter?” Tentatively, she reaches out to touch Nikolija’s shoulder.

Nikolija glances back at her, running a hand through her hair. “No! Is something — _should_ anything be wrong?”

Then Helen realizes, reaching out to trace the lacing of the corset as it crisscrosses over Nikolija’s back. “You want me to take this off?” Disappointment wells up, though she's loathe to call it that.

“Well, if I'm to be naked.” She isn't teasing about this, though; Helen might just dare say she's reluctant.

Helen sets a hand on her shoulder. “You don't have to disrobe if you'd prefer not to.”

“I don't know.” Nikolija swallows, and looks down at herself. “I like wearing this. I'd like you to like looking at me. I don't know if I want to be touched —” She gestures to her bust, then crosses her arms, curling into herself slightly, protectively.

“As you like. Whatever you like.” Helen shakes her head, curls tumbling over her shoulders. “We don't have to do anything.” She's a little disappointed, if she's honest, that she might not get to explore, but not too much so. That the possibility exists, that alone is a gift she never expected to take from this evening.

“I want to, though.” Nikolija shakes her head, and straightens, looking at Helen with a new, determined fire in her eyes. “I want —” But she doesn't finish her sentence, leaning in to kiss Helen, and suddenly Helen isn't sure what she might have said was particularly important right now after all.

Nikolija’s legs tangle in the skirt as she twists, and she breaks the kiss with a muffled curse to hitch the skirt up again. “I'd forgotten what a pain these can be.” Helen giggles softly. “Don't laugh.” Nikolija shoots her a pouting half-glare.

“Come here.” Helen shifts back to lean against her pillows, holding a hand out for Nikolija. “Up on your knees.”

“Even here you can't help but take charge,” Nikolija murmurs as she follows.

“Do you have some problem with that?” Helen arches an eyebrow at Nikolija, who quirks a smile and shakes her head. “Knees apart.”

Again, Nikolija complies, watching her quietly. Helen stretches her legs out between them, and slowly slides her hands up the backs of Nikolija’s thighs, watching her. Her lashes flutter; her breath hitches, turning uneven the higher Helen lets her hands wander; her muscles twitch at the contact; yet nothing, to Helen's eye, indicates discomfort. Really, if Tesla didn't like something, she usually made it known very clearly.

“Is this all right?” Helen still asks.

“Quite,” Nikolija answers, and it seems to shake something loose inside her. She leans forward to kiss Helen again: a slight nip to her bottom lip, then smoothing her tongue along her jaw, nibbling at a spot just below the ear that makes Helen shiver.

Helen pulls her closer, reflexively, her index fingers slotting easily into the groove between arsecheek and thigh. She lets her head fall back and to the side, giving Nikolija free reign, and _oh_ , she hadn't thought kisses could ever feel like _this_.

Nikolija tucks her head against the pillows, kissing and nipping at her shoulder, her breath surging hot over Helen’s skin. With one hand she holds Helen’s head; the other, she's tentatively sweeping up and down Helen’s side, inching ever closer to palming her breast.

Helen can't help the startled little sound she makes the first time Nikolija’s thumb brushes over her nipple. Nikolija raises her head, stilling, searching her face.

“Don't stop.” It's more needy than she thought it would sound. She doesn't get this needy this quickly, not on her own. But there’s already a warm, empty ache between her legs and she’s not sure where to begin to address it. She spreads her legs the little she can, confined by Nikolja’s own, and hopes her friend — _lover_ , and a small thrill runs through her — will understand.

Holding her gaze, Nikolija lets her hands drift lower, between them. Helen brushes her thumbs in small arcs over Nikoija’s skin; Nikolija shivers, and widens her stance a little, too. Mouth watering, Helen tentatively brushes her fingertips between Nikolija’s legs, past wiry hair to silken, slick labia. Then Nikolija slides a knuckle down over her clit and between her folds, and Helen tenses, whimpers.

Nikolija’s earnest expression twists into a near-feral grin, and she repeats the motion, watching, cataloguing as Helen grips her thighs harder, closes her eyes, bucks ever-so-slightly into the touch. Nikolija’s fingers are long, deft, drifting and teasing, slipping between her labia and against her entrance, withdrawing to circle her clit, and all thought of touching Nikolija is gone, because _this_ sensation, this glorious spark wherever Nikolija touches her is washing away her every conscious thought.

She can practically _feel_ Nikolija’s gaze on her, warm and assessing, every bit as intense as she knows from their work together and then some.  “Helen,” she murmurs, softly. “Tell me what you want.” Yet she already seems to know as she carefully slips one finger inside her, curling it up, adding another, still brushing her thumb over Helen’s clit. The soft, sure touch reminds Helen more than anything else ever could that her lover is a woman, intimately familiar with her body despite the newness of it all.

Helen can only gasp, and pull Nikolija closer, removing one hand from beneath her skirt to set it at the small of her back. The corset laces crisscross beneath her fingers.

Shifting her other hand from Helen’s neck to the headboard, Nikolija chuckles, darkly. Then she nips at Helen’s ear, traces the curve of the cartilage with her tongue. “It isn't healthy, _Doctor_ Magnus,” she murmurs, low and panting and breathless, “To be this… pent-up. Your cunt is _weeping_ over my hand.”

Without thinking, Helen grasps the corset laces and tugs, so she can look Nikolija in the eye. “Don't make fun. Else I'll throw you out, no matter how much I'm —” She searches for a different word, and finds none. Her mind is hardly on words, anyways.

Nikolija nods, anyways, her breath coming quick and shallow as her fingers inside Helen still. Only then does Helen notice the cords biting into her fingers, the way the corset must be unevenly constricting. For a moment, she lets her gaze wander over Nikolija, over the picture of disheveled, determined, bound femininity she creates, and then lets go of the laces.

Nikolija sucks in a gulp of air, cheeks aflame and contrition in her gaze. “I only meant to tease. I still can't quite believe…” She doesn't finish her sentence, leaning in for a sweet, apologetic kiss, but Helen understands.

“Just bloody touch me,” she mutters into Nikolija’s mouth, bucking her hips against her hand in an unmistakable demand for more. She can feel Nikolija smiling against her lips, curling her fingers inside her cunt, brushing her thumb across her clit. The rough fabric of the corset rubs against her nipples, an otherwise uncomfortable sensation that now only stimulates.

Her cunt begins to clench; she breaks the kiss to throw her head back, gulping in a much-needed breath, arching with the building tension. This is nothing like her own fingers; the mechanics may be similar, but this is simply _more_. Her grip on Nikolija’s legs tightens, fingernails digging into soft muscle. She might leave marks, but Nikolija’s sharp gasp, her slight mewl, leaves Helen skeptical she'll much mind.

“Yes, so beautiful,” Nikolija murmurs, her voice low and rough as she presses insistently at Helen’s inner walls. Helen hadn’t realized she was whimpering, soft needy sounds she can't suppress as she cants her hips into Nikolija’s hand. “ _Helen_ …” Nikolija sounds almost desperate as she presses her thumb to Helen’s clit, and it's this that shatters her.

Helen cries out; what, she doesn't know, as her climax washes over her and Nikolija doesn't let up, stroking and soothing and touching in a way that keeps her high, a little tense, even as the tremors subside. A boneless languor fills her, a warm contentment.

“Stop.” She relaxes back into the pillows, meeting Nikolija’s eyes.

Nikolija immediately stills, straightening, and slowly withdraws her fingers. There's something in her gaze that makes Helen tremble inside, something wide-eyed and starstruck and almost reverent. When she speaks, it's barely a whisper. “Was that all right?”

Helen smooths her hand up and down Nikolija’s thighs, noting her slight shudder. “More than. Come here?”

“I am here.” Nikolija laughs a little, shifting on top of her.

Helen shakes her head, removing one hand from Nikolija’s leg to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer for a quiet kiss. “No, you weren't,” she murmurs, fondly, and kisses her again. Helen lets her other hand drift around Nikolija’s leg, up her inner thigh, but Nikolija stiffens, dropping her gaze. “What's wrong?”

“Might we just sleep? I do want that, but tonight it might be too much.” Her voice wavers, and her hair falls into her face.

“Of course.” Dropping her hand from Nikolija’s leg, brushing her hair behind her ear, Helen kisses her again, softly. She doesn't think she ever wants to stop kissing her. Nikolija doesn’t seem to want to stop, either, from the way she lingers, brushing her lips over Helen’s lightly, again and again. “Do you want to sleep here or in the guest room?” Helen finally whispers. “I'd like if you stayed here.”

“I'd like to stay here.” Nikolija looks at her, a little shyly, from beneath her lashes. Her breath still comes a little short.

“Then you'll stay,” Helen says, decidedly. “But you can't sleep in my corset. Turn around.”

A little reluctantly, Nikolija shifts off of her lap and turns her back to Helen. Slowly, a little clumsily — because it is late and a contented sleepiness is creeping into her limbs and weighing down her eyelids — Helen unties the laces and begins loosening them. “Don't worry,” she murmurs, brushing aside Nikolija’s hair to caress the side of her neck, “I have every intention of getting you back in this sometime soon.”

She takes the small shudder, the soft noise Nikolija makes as a sign she'd like that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> You just know the next day "Nikola" is going to walk up to her on campus all cocky and kiss her on the corner of the mouth and give her cheeky wink and hold out "his" arm for her... And she'll hiss at "him" about "What do you think you're doing?" and Nikolija will sober and ask, doesn't she want to? Take advantage of the unique situation her illusion offers them?  
> And Helen will take a moment to think it over, and maybe blush a bit, and nod and take "his" elbow and Tesla will be grinning so hard the entire rest of the _week_.


End file.
